Once a month, my community group organizes a potluck, and let me tell you, my partner absolutely relishes the experience. Me? Not so much.
For those unfamiliar, potlucks can be a bit of a nightmare. Picture this: people gather, each person contributes a dish or dessert, and there’s a chance someone might bring a virus instead of food. The premise is that everything should be homemade, turning it into a delightful way to enjoy a meal crafted in a questionable kitchen with unknown ingredients—ingredients that could leave you regretting your life choices for days.
Am I being overly dramatic? Is this a sign of a germaphobe? Let me elaborate.
My partner adores these monthly gatherings because it’s a chance for socializing. That’s where my discomfort creeps in. To the outside world, I may come off as friendly and sociable, but in reality, I’m just wearing a mask. Attending social events like these means I have to keep that facade up longer, and it’s exhausting. “Hey, Clint, time to show your charming side again!” they might as well say, while I inwardly groan.
Naturally, we bring our kids along. The three of them, ages 5 to 12, survey the assortment of dishes like they are looking at a horror show. They turn down each item, holding out until they reach the cookie table, where they load up on sugary treats. By the time I’m done scrutinizing the food for potential hazards, I’ve lost the will to fight back and let them indulge, only to witness the inevitable sugar crash in a public setting.
Is that enough to illustrate my point?
I know there are folks out there who share my partner’s enthusiasm for potlucks, but I’m here to challenge the notion that they are universally loved. Many of us dislike them but remain silent to avoid being labeled the party pooper. The social pressure is intense: if you don’t bring a dish, you’re a freeloader; if no one eats what you made, you feel like a culinary failure; and showing up with store-bought items makes you appear lazy. I’m not a great cook, and I prefer to keep that a mystery. Bringing a bag of chips or a box of cookies feels like an admission of defeat, and I replay that moment in my head at 2 a.m. for ages.
But let me share a real horror story. A viral tweet from my friend Jenna revealed that at a recent workplace potluck, one of her coworkers brought a bag of raw chicken and proceeded to cook it right there. He didn’t wash his hands before or after, leaving the entire office vulnerable to salmonella. This incident epitomizes my fears about potlucks—while some attendees may be careful, many are not, leaving me to assume that every dish could pose a health risk. It’s like playing Russian roulette with food!
And to those who think I’m being unreasonable for refusing to partake in these gatherings, let me assure you: you’re not irrational. There’s a flaw in the potluck system.
So why do I keep attending these potlucks? Well, it’s simple: I love my partner, and she enjoys it. Each month, I go, avoid eating anything, and manage the kids while she socializes. I’m not a bad person; I’m just a realist who believes potlucks are, let’s face it, the worst.
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In summary, potlucks can be a source of anxiety and discomfort for many, and yet we often feel pressured to participate. The blend of social expectations and food safety concerns creates a tricky balance that leaves some of us longing for an alternative.
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